I Understand
by AgeOfDarkness413
Summary: John was getting married tomorrow. He was. Then Sherlock goes and throws that bloody violin against the wall and suddenly, he needs to understand. Sherlock and John need to understand. That not only are emotions for harboring, for worshipping, but they are the most exciting weapon known to humanity. And they will make each other believe that, one way or another. ONESHOT\TWOSHOT


Title: I Understand

Author: D.R. Ward

Age: 14

Date: 12-28-13

Summary: John was getting married tomorrow. He was. Then Sherlock goes and throws that bloody violin against the wall and suddenly, he needs to understand. Both Sherlock and John need to understand. That not only are emotions for harboring, for worshipping, but they are the most exciting weapon known to humanity. And they will make each other believe that, one way or another. ONE-SHOT, maybe TWO-SHOT (Sex scene. xD)

A|N: Oh my god, my mind just finally stopped. I wrote this thing and my whole mind was exploding and rushed, so it's best if you try to read this quickly and get how it's supposed to sound, all dramatic and seriously in the moment, like I was. xD I wrote this just after watching some Doctor Who, so my mind was, of course, racing with as much as the Eleventh Doctor thinks, which is kind of what bred this – both the Doctor's and Sherlock's minds pressed together, I think. xD But not only theirs, but John's as well. So, I hope you like there – R&R, please!

Oh, and there's a great possibility that this will turn into a two-shot sex scene for another chapter. xD

I Understand 

_Chapter One: It's This Moment_

~oOo~

_Third Person POV_

"And you stood there, like a cold, obsidian statue…for what seemed like days. I felt detached then, so bloody miserable in my own skin that I couldn't even understand the most proper, human functions. You made me what I never wanted to be – emotional, attached to such feeling that I would be the first sincere failure of my family. Feelings are utterly, completely useless. I had always thought that. I had always known that it would make me weaker."

"And what changed, Sherlock? Why do you care now?"

"Because I know John. Oh god, I know everything. Every bloody thing. I remember every word you've ever said to me. So common, so uncommon, so in place, so out of place, almost foreign. You made me breathe again. Because John…with you, I realize that what I have become was everything that makes me human. Before…before I was just Sherlock Holmes. I wasn't really a person. I didn't think or act like a person."

"You were always human to me. You needn't change. So why are you telling me this?"

"Because of you. Because _you _are _everything _I have and everything I will ever need. Don't you understand? _Everything_."

"I-I…Sure, Sherlock. Everything. I've done everything you need. Anything you need. I still would. But I…I don't…."

"Understand. You aren't_ understanding_." Sherlock Holmes turned away from John in exasperation as he ruffled his own unruly, messy hair. He groaned in frustration just after, not even bothering to turn around because if he had, he would only see the confusion written over John's face that he himself had grown to both adore and despise at the exact same time.

John watched from two to three feet away as Sherlock failed to continue to talk. He didn't understand what Sherlock was trying to say. Of course he knew that he would do anything to Sherlock, and albeit he forgets once in a while, he also knew that Sherlock respected him for who he was. For what he was. Normal. But what was he rambling about, all these emotions? Saying that he was everything to Sherlock? He didn't understand. Yes. The truth. He didn't understand.

"I'm not. So tell me. Tell me what's wrong. Is something going on that I should know about? Is something big about to happen? What do you want me to do this time? I will do anything, I swear Sherlock. Anything you want."

Sherlock turned to him, silent, as he spoke those words. His eyes were wild and bloodshot – how long had it been since he last slept? What was going on? Sherlock was scaring him. What was he going to do? It had been a peaceful night, almost silent, until Sherlock had thrown his makeshift violin across the room in a fit of rage. The wood had shattered completely, rendering the beautiful musical instrument useless.

Sherlock's original violin was in for fixing. It had been scalded by a minor explosion, and he was getting it re-stained and fixed properly. Had he been angered by the violin? He was quirky like that. However, Sherlock just wouldn't have played it if it had been the violin. Think, John, think. What piece had he just been playing? What was the tune? How did it go? Was it sad, angered, or excited? What was it?

Sherlock, from feet away, took a deep inhalation of breath. His eyes slid shut, rendering his mind to recess back into the deep cascades of his never-ending thought. His lips twitched, a sign that he was still frustrated, but he managed to keep himself cool. What he really needed was a cigarette. John didn't mind much anymore. He tried to stop smoking once, only for the sake that John hadn't, but the blonde didn't mind.

So, he wanted a cigarette. But he wouldn't have one. Not now, not when he was so close. Because if he didn't say it now, he would never be able to. He would never hear John's reply. He would never know what kind of answer it was. Whether it be good or bad, he didn't mind. He just needed John to _know. _

"John. Listen to me and listen to me closely, alright? There is no danger. Not today, anyway. Not in any immediate future or whatever thought you may have, I assure you now, that it's nothing. It's just me…I need to say something, because…."

"Because what?"

"You're getting married tomorrow, John. How difficult is it for you to figure out? Surely anyone could figure it out. But then again, you are dealing with me, so you might have programmed yourself not to ever even dare think of such a thing. For the better or for the worse, I am unsure. But I need to, John. I need to. Don't you understand?"

"I'm afraid not. Sherlock, are you…under the influence? Or…on some type of drug again?" John queried, worried that his friend had collapsed to the need again. But he had been clean for so bloody long, he wouldn't…would he?

"No." Sherlock shook his head immediately. "Of course I'm not. I'm just…under a lot of pressure now. I didn't think…I really didn't think this day would ever come."

"My marriage day?" John frowned. "How so? What does this have to do with anything? What are you insinuating?" The blonde sat down on his recliner, wondering how everything had exploded at once. His mind was still trying to keep up. What was going on, again?

"Everything. It has to do with everything." Sherlock suddenly turned around then, facing John with a fierce, solid look.

"Please elaborate then."

"Do you love her, John? Do you truly, seriously, love her with every _single_ fiber of your being? In a _romantic_ way?" Sherlock questioned instead, his taunt chin tilted downwards to stare, blue eyes to blue eyes, into the blonde's soul.

"W-What are you saying, Sherlock? O-Of course."

"Because I don't think you do, really. I don't think that you love her with every single fiber, every single thought, every single emotion that you have. Someone else took that. Someone else has that. But who, John? Who do you open your heart for?" Sherlock testified with his quick words, his quick power, making John stiffen and his face harden.

"I do not know what you are speaking of, Sherlock. I –…"

"It's written all over your face. Why, John? Why do you hide it from me? Why are you marrying her if you love her in not a romantic, but a civil, sisterly way? Why?"

John shook his head and turned away, a frown continuing to mar his perfectly sculptured face. "Because she '_understands' _Sherlock. She gets me. She knows me. She knows who I hold so dear in my heart, that I couldn't bear to let them go, as selfish as I am. And she doesn't _care. _So no, I am not marrying her for her romantic faults. I am marrying her because she knows me."

Sherlock scowled. Deep, angry, observant. "And you don't care to understand me, then, do you? You just don't _see _me, John, do you? Who is it then? Who do you hold so _bloody _dear?"

"You wouldn't get it –…."

"– because for me, it's you. It's always been you. It always _will _by you. Do you get it now, John? Do you get it? Actually, no, I'm not sure you do. I'm not sure you ever will. So I'm sorry, but I can't bare participate in a wedding designated to the only man in the world that makes me _feel _again!"

John couldn't utter another word before he was infested, body and mind, with the picture of Sherlock's back fluttering away, coat fluttering with him as he rushed out of 221B Baker Street's door, slamming it behind him with nothing more than a reminder to John that Sherlock was running away. He never ran away. He would never run away.

But he was running away then.

_Just when John understood. He understood. That those feelings he harbored for so long, stirring and manifesting, were not as alone as he thought. They were there. Dormant inside Sherlock. For so long. Was it so long? Where was Sherlock going? Why was he running away? Why didn't he come back? Why wouldn't Sherlock understand as well?_

_He was not alone in this war._

_In this battle._

John stood then, his mind wiped of any other thought than the raw need to find Sherlock. To console him. To tell him that everything was alright. To hold him. To kiss him. To remind him. Everything was alright.

Hands trembling, body hat fluctuating, John immediately set sights on his smartphone. He weaved throughout the furniture to the kitchen table, veins alive with the chase, as he knew exactly who to call. Robotically the blonde punched in the simple numbers that would connect him to Sherlock without it being Sherlock, and as he held it to his ear, it managed to ring once before it was picked up.

"Tea. Speedy's Café. You will find him there. Get him."

The receiving end had hung up after those few short words, but John was already ahead of him. The man who had been speaking was already long gone from his thought process and he, instead, was already out the doors with his coat dangling behind him much like Sherlock's had been – rushed and forgetful. He knew where that was. It wasn't far. Wasn't far at all. He would get there. He would pull Sherlock home and explain to him.

He would make sure Sherlock never forget. Oh, how he would. He had been waiting for this as well. Well, not precisely, but he had been wishing for this the better part of Sherlock's existence to him. Anyway, as he was gifted with the open, almost dead street around him, John took an immediate left and managed to take off in a full out sprint towards his direction.

Arms pumping, legs pushing and pulling, mind clouded, heart beating rapidly and lip curling in a slightly angered fashion. Oh god, he was on bloody _fire. _And it felt so good. He felt so good. It was nice. Knowing Sherlock. Finally, seriously, knowingly, _knowing _him. It was wonderful. "Oh, blimey." John muttered as he came to a stop. Waiting now, seriously agitated as a car passes by, John took a deep breath and watched the vehicle pass.

As soon as it was gone, the chase was back. The young Watson kicked into full gear, back to the pumping and beating and pushing and pulling of his own body, John passed another corner, seeing the café now within reach. There Sherlock was, sitting in the corner of the glass, his face reflected with anger and pain and pity. John saw it, oh god, he could see all of it. But that spurred him on further.

Farther.

Faster.

He would get there.

Watson passed the street, managing to avoid the oncoming traffic with sheer luck alone. Sherlock couldn't see him, his head was tilted in another direction, his perfect jaw angled in such a way that still held shivers in the blonde's mind. The door. Ah, the door. His escape to happiness. His final point. His destination.

Past the door. Oh, he was passed the door. People stared at him in shock, but he paid no mind to them, London was a strange place. They would get over it in a manner of seconds and go back to drink their tea. Ah, there they go. Not bothering. Sherlock hadn't looked up. He was lost in thought. As he would be. Sherlock thought he was still alone. After all this time, he thought he was still alone.

Not anymore. John was there. He always had been.

No wedding. He didn't need a wedding. He wouldn't need one. Not unless it was Sherlock standing beside him on the left, not the right. Not unless Sherlock was there.

He understood.

The table. By now he had made it to the table. People refrained from staring. John, though, took ahold of Sherlock's thin wrist, drawing the man out of his induced stupor. However, John already had his back turned before he could catch Sherlock's eye. With a rough tug, he pulled Sherlock out of the booth, slapping down a few pieces he found his pocket to pay for the tea. It wouldn't be good if they were chased down for not paying.

It didn't take long for John to pull Sherlock out of the café. Futile from shock, he didn't have the strength to pull back and John knew this.

Through the traffic again, John pulled, this time using more force than he had to get here to get Sherlock back; back so he could tell him everything. Oh, how excited he was. To finally understand everything. For Sherlock to understand everything. It was all falling into place.

Blasted it was this late, though. So much money spent on that wedding.

Not that it mattered. Not with Sherlock now, anyway. He had Sherlock. That's all that mattered. He finally had Sherlock.

"John? John! What are you doing?! There's oncoming traffic! I –…."

"Oh, piss off. You love this. You always had. The chase. The game. Well, Sherlock, you always loved the endings best." John replied with a large, consuming grin. Sherlock, shocked at the strange smile he didn't think he had ever seen on the other – a triumphant, glorious smile – blinked slightly as he was pulled all the way back home. His arm hurt, but he wouldn't tell John that, no, not with what he was seeing.

What was going on? This time, Sherlock didn't understand. That was foreign.

"I do. What's this got to do with why you're pulling me all the way back home? I can walk very well on my own." Sherlock countered quite well, not missing a beat as he steps echoed through the silent road. John took this moment to come to a complete stop, sending Sherlock tumbling into him without warning. Still grinning, John had been pushed onto the ground, Sherlock on top of him. He lifted his head to stop unnecessary contact with the concrete.

Sherlock grunted as he became all limbs on top of the blonde who had abruptly paused.

John didn't give Sherlock time to think. Not anymore, not now. He wouldn't let Sherlock slip away. "Sherlock, oh, Sherlock. You are the bloody blind one. Always blind, you are. You're the one that's seeing, but not observing," John rambled on so quickly, his own mind couldn't catch up with him. They passed by in a flurry. "God, Sherlock. So long. I had waited so long. I was so hopeless. You never saw me either. You never had. My looks, oh, my adoring looks, when I was sure you weren't looking – I would do anything for you, Sherlock. Anything. Do you know what that entitles?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He simply sat up on his elbows and stared down at the blonde below him in something keen to shock. Blue blocked on blue again, this time forever.

John smirked and pulled Sherlock's hips down on him as he wrapped his legs around the other's waist, making sure he was unable to move. In haste, John pulled Sherlock's face down even closer with arms that were now securely wrapped around the dark-haired figure's scarf-covered neck. Warm breath was released in the cold, but John made sure he spoke before his captive.

"That means I would spread my legs for you, Sherlock. Any minute. Any second. At any time. I was always yours. I was yours to control. I still am. Always." John smirked as he pressed Sherlock down on him further. He and Sherlock brushed against each other, sending a jolt of shock through both of their spines that released a deep moan in synchronization between the two figures.

"God, yours. Always yours. Yours to control. Yours to have. Yours to do wha you will with. God, it was all you. I love you with every fiber, every emotion, every feeling, every thought and cell, that I have. You jump, I jump. You fall, I fall. You rise, I rise. Yours. Mine. Always us. Ours."

John stopped for breath, his heart racing at his own confession. Sherlock was still, he could feel it – still and tense. Eyes were wide. Breath was sharp. Panting.

"I love you, Sherlock." John mentioned once more before he crashed his freezing, twitching lips over those bow-shaped ones he was so sure that he would never have the pleasure of feeling. From underneath his lips, he felt Sherlock's bend at his will, crushing underneath him in a hot, soft form of submission. The man on top had almost reeled back at the force, the clanking of teeth, but he pushed back to level himself in shock while John had attacked his mouth.

Sherlock tilted his head to immediately give John all access to whatever he wanted at the moment. His elbows shook with tension; they were cold on the London floor but he didn't mind, not when he had the object of his obsession underneath him to tantalizingly, so willing. So strong at his weakest moment.

Emotion was not weak. It never was, apparently. Sherlock had just been weak. It takes the right person to shape emotion, to grasp ahold of it and bend it to their will – it takes a bloody strong person to make feelings a weapon – and one of those people were named John. John Watson.

Sherlock's lips were already moving alongside John's, perfectly fit in between the smaller ones that were forcing him to his will. They were like that for three, no, four minutes, simply enjoying each other's kiss, their touch, their warmth. John had been the first to pull away, gasping for air, heading hitting the concrete harshly. Sherlock pulled away a little as well, just enough to see John's glowing with magnificence and glory.

God, John was beautiful.

God, Sherlock was beautiful.

God, _they _were beautiful.

"John, oh, my John…." Sherlock murmured, his voice rough and so bloody delicious that it took all of John's strength not to just attack Sherlock's beautiful lips once more. He let Sherlock talk. "It was me all along, me who had completely captured you."

"Yes." John smiled brilliantly and tilted his sharp jaw to stare at his newfound partner. "You saved me. From death. From life. From thought. From humanity's scary features. You are perfect, Sherlock."

"No, John. It is you who is perfect. The light for my darkness. The only light that can pierce my darkness. That could reach me. You are my bloody _only." _

With every fierce word that Sherlock emitted, John felt a new wave of goose bumps arrive on his skin. John, not waiting for another moment, flipped the two of them so he was now on top and Sherlock submitting under him. "Let's go home, Sherlock. No more. No more wedding. No more thought. We'll feel, yeah?" John whispered, his lids fluttering on top of his glowing eyes. "I'll make you feel me like never before. How does that sound?"

"Better than ever. Brilliant, John." Sherlock grinned from the bottom as well, still, feeling slightly comfortable with their position. "Let's go home. Need to show you who _you _belong to, John."

"Oh, I know who I belong to." John's eyes twinkled as he laid feather light kissed along Sherlock twitching jaw. "Definitely you. But a promise is a promise isn't it? And after I've submitted to you, spread my legs for you, we'll do it my way. You'll be spreading yours, those endless, beautiful, tones legs, in no time."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "I understand."


End file.
